An Anonymous Girl(88)

An office seems like a safe enough place. If Thomas wants to hurt me, wouldn’t he pick another location, one that isn’t linked to him? But it’s Sunday, and I don’t know if the building will be empty.

Lauren said she thought Thomas seemed like a nice guy. That was my impression of him, too, both at the museum and on the night we hooked up. But I can’t ever shake the memory of what happened the last time I was alone in an office with a man who seemed nice.

So I make a second call, this one to Noah, and ask him to meet me outside Thomas’s building in ninety minutes.

“Everything okay?” he asks.

“I’m not sure,” I say honestly. “I have an appointment with someone I don’t know that well and I’d just feel better if you were there to pick me up after.”

“Who is it?”

“His name is Dr. Cooper. It’s kind of a work thing. I’ll explain it all when I see you, okay?”

Noah sounds a little dubious, but he agrees. I think of all the things I’ve done—given him a fake name, told him several times I’ve had weird or stressful days, expressed concerns about trusting others—and I promise myself I really will tell him as much as I can. It’s not just because he deserves it. I’d feel safer having someone else know what’s going on.

As I feared, the hallway is empty as I approach Thomas’s office at 1:30 P.M.

At the end of the corridor, I find Suite 114. There’s a plaque on the side of the entrance listing his full name, Thomas Cooper, and those of a few other therapists.

I lift my hand. Before I can knock, the door swings open.

I instinctively take a step back.

I’d forgotten how big he is. His frame fills most of the entryway, blotting out the weak winter sunlight streaming in from the window behind him.

“This way,” Thomas says, stepping aside and jerking his head toward what must be his private office.

I wait for him to go first; I don’t want him behind me. But he isn’t moving.

After a few seconds, he seems to comprehend my concern and he abruptly turns and strides through the waiting area.

As soon as I’m inside his office, he closes the door.

The space seems to shrink, hemming me in. My body clenches up as panic tears through me. No one can help me if Thomas is truly dangerous. There are three doors between me and the outside world.

I’m trapped, just like I was with Gene.

So many times I’ve fantasized about what I would do if I could relive that night in the quiet theater, after everyone else had left: I’ve beaten myself up for just standing there, frozen, while Gene got off on my vulnerability and fear.

Now I’m in a situation that feels eerily similar.

And I’m paralyzed again.

But Thomas merely walks around his desk and sits in the leather rolling chair.

He looks surprised when I remain standing.

“Have a seat,” he says, gesturing to a chair facing him. I sink into it, trying to steady my breathing.

“My boyfriend is waiting outside,” I choke out.

Thomas raises an eyebrow. “Okay,” he says, sounding so nonplussed that I know he isn’t planning to do anything harmful to me.

My terror continues to ebb away as I take in Thomas’s appearance: He looks exhausted. He’s wearing an untucked flannel shirt, and he’s unshaven. When he takes off his glasses to rub his eyes, I notice they’re red-rimmed, the way mine always get when I haven’t slept enough.

He puts his glasses back on and steeples his hands. His next words come as a surprise.

“Look, I can’t make you trust me,” he says. “But I swear, I’m trying to protect you from Lydia. You’re already in so deep.”

I break eye contact with him and glance around the room, trying to get clues about who Thomas is. I’ve been in Dr. Shields’s office and the town house, and both of those places reflect her cool, remote elegance.

Thomas’s office is so different. Beneath my feet is a soft-looking rug, and the wooden shelves are overflowing with books of all shapes and sizes. On his desk is a clear jar filled with butterscotch candy in yellow wrappers. Beside it is one of those coffee mugs with an inspirational quote wrapped around its perimeter. I stare at the two words in the middle of the quote: love you.

It sparks a question. “Do you even love your wife?” I ask.

He dips his head. “I thought I did. I wanted to. I tried to . . .” His voice sounds a little ragged. “But I couldn’t.”

I believe him; I was entranced by Dr. Shields, too, when I first met her.

In my pocket, I feel my phone vibrate. I ignore it, but I imagine Dr. Shields holding her sleek, silver phone to her ear, waiting for me to answer. The tiny lines in her exquisite face, the face that appears carved from flawless white marble, are deepening.

“People get divorced all the time. Why didn’t you simply end it?” I ask.

Then I remember what he told me: You can’t just leave someone like her.

“I tried that. But to her, our marriage was perfect, and she refused to see that we had any problems,” Thomas says. “So you’re right, I did make up the affair with that woman from the boutique—Lauren. I picked her almost on a whim. She seemed believable, like someone I’d want to sleep with. I deliberately texted Lydia and pretended it was meant for Lauren.”